varlogtransformers
by mercva
Summary: A few Transformers ideas I've been mulling over. Some crossovers, see preword.
1. Preword

Quite a few 2007-based Transformers fics have Sam become some kind of 'sparkling', or child-like 'youngling' Cybertronian.

I can be ornery sometimes. I got a few ideas around that.

Some fics have angst over the only remaining method of Bay-verse Transformer procreation being destroyed in Mission City.

G1 fixed that in the 80s.

Some terms belong to other people - Sideswipe's unofficial officer status belongs to The Starhorse, who is a much better writer than me.

But hey. Have fun reading this, and if any of these give you ideas for your own stories, feel free to use 'em and throw me a link on my email.


	2. Black Wings

Sam stared moodily down the street. "I hate this human town. I hate playing nice with them. And I hate hiding in this useless human form!"

His dam sighed. "I don't like it either, but there isn't much choice, is there? We can't just play with the humans anymore, they've come too far with their technology and weaponry."

"How long do we have to hide like this?" Sam asked. "I want to stretch my wings, and hunt."

"How about we visit Africa this summer?" Jude Witwicky asked.

Sam lifted his head. A slow smile bloomed. "And hunt poachers and wildlife?"

"As long as we finally finish sorting through the human legacy," his dam said firmly.

Sam pulled a face. His guardians (being his dam, and his uncle of sorts) had approached an aging human with no spawn of it's own, and proposed 'adoption', for lack of a better word, into the human's line, in exchange spoiling the human rotten with healing spells and the finances that beings as longlived as they could muster. His dam had saddled him with sorting through the ancestral artifacts of the human, while she and her new partner (his uncle, as far as he was concerned no one could replace his _real_ father!) dug through the minefield of inheritance and legal matters.

"I saw that," his dam said firmly. "You've put it off for more than a decade, Sammarion."

"Okay," Sam said reluctantly. "I'll start going through them tonight. I'll probably sell most of it on the human's online trading thing. Ebay. Whatever it is. The money can go into the Flight's accounts."

"Speaking of which, Ron is going to take you car shopping in a week," Jude said.

"Do I really need one?" Sam asked. "I can travel a lot faster than those slow things."

"Not without attracting humans with RPGs," Jude said dryly. "Besides, it's expected of a human of your given age and background to want one to attain a measure of independance from it's sire and dam."

* * *

As expected, Sammarion had not found anything he'd particularly want amongst the old human's possessions. He'd kept some documents from the old human's father, who had been an explorer before going insane. The madman's ramblings about icemen, as tall as skyscrapers, made Sam think of the Blue Flight, which he had never seen, only heard stories from his dam and uncle about,.

The personal possessions of the old human, and the artifacts that it had had in it's possession, Sam put up for sale on Ebay. He knew that the antique design of the clothes, and the glasses (both of the old human and of the old human's explorer father) would sell well. To his surprise, most of it _except_ for the older pair of glasses had sold well. He'd expected either a steampunk nerd or a history buff to snap those up.

Now, he and his uncle were shopping for a new car.

"I wish that I could get a good one," Sam said moodily. "Fixing a decrepit piece of human engineering does not sound like my idea of fun."

"Now," his uncle said. "You know that a teenage male doesn't have money for a new or even a good car while in highschool, except for ones who have sires with money."

"I don't need money from my sire," Sam spat. "I have plenty on my own."

"Careful, too much more and your glamour will fail," his uncle warned. Sam immediately tried to calm down. "And while I know that you've been working the markets since the 1900s, no one else does."

Sam stared out the window. "I should never have agreed to being this age."

"You know that a male-female couple with progeny attract less attention than a female and two males living together," his uncle, 'Ron' said with a tone of longsuffering.

"I know," Sam said. "Pull in here, it looks cheap enough."

"Bolivia's Finest Quality Used Cars and Petting Zoo?" Ron asked. "Well, it looks weird enough to fit your public persona."

Sam gave him another glare, and Ron canned it. While he was appreciably older than the younger male, Sam still had a lot of power due to his original sire and next time they were able to take their natural forms without fear of attack, he'd probably get his payback.

He sighed deeply as he looked around. Volkswagen Beetles, old wooden sided grandad-mobiles... Sam's eyes paused. He strode over to the faded two-door.

"Spotted something?" Ron asked.

"You've got a good eye," the salesman said, walking over. "I'm Bobby Bolivia, but you can call me Uncle Bobby. Let me tell you somethin', son: A driver don't pick the car, nuh-uh...the car picks the driver. It's a mystical bond between man and machine. And I can see that from a mile off, with experience. This car, it sings to you, don't it?"

"Camaro?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, old school muscle with a custom faded paintjob," Bolivia said. Sam might have not liked the man on general principle, but he could admit that the man had the gift of the blarney. "They just don't make 'em like this anymore. And for five thousand, it's a steal."

"Five is too high, with those kind of tyres it should be closer to three thousand," Sam said immediately. "Maybe two."

"I could come down to forty five hundred," Bolivia said. "Uncle Bobby, he's a kind man. And I'll throw in some free street maps, and that's cutting my own throat here, son."

"Three five," Sam said. His body language screamed out that he was more than ready to walk off. And Bolivia could tell that he was about to lose a sale, and not only that, but sales of a car that he didn't have to buy, meaning pure profit.

"Four thousand, now do we have a deal?" Bolivia asked, with a smooth smile.

"We do indeed," Sam said. Ron had been hanging back, watching Sam. "You don't need to giftwrap it. Let's go in your office, and I'll authorise a money transfer."

"You're a weird kid, you know that right?" Bobby Bolivia said, giving Sam a strange look. He realised what he'd just said. "But I like that in a man!"

* * *

Sammarion woke up as he heard something. Looking out his window, he realised that someone was stealing his new car.

Not that he was fond of the idea of having one, but he had to admit that the cultural charisma of the item was compelling, and he'd found the idea of 'doing it up' and perhaps selling it, or 'cruising' in it, appealing. Far more importantly, it was his property, and some insolent human was stealing from him.

Sam looked up into the sky. It was a moonless night, not many people out... His dam might verbally rip him bloody for it the next day, but he felt he could only restrain himself for so long.

* * *

Bumblebee aimed a sensor skyward. He was making his way to an out of the way place to make a transmission to Optimus Prime, to update his mission status. But something unusual was following him in the sky, something with no engine noise but great mass.

He decided to ignore it for now. It didn't fit the parameters of Starscream, Thrust, or any of the other Decepticon Seekers, nor did it seem to be Vortex or Blastoff, from the Combaticon combiner team. He was probably safe, and was skilled at evading enemies in the event it did turn up to be hostile.

After a brief message exchange between himself and his Prime, Bumblebee scanned the area, finding only biological creatures. No Decepticons had arrived (the reason for transmitting in this separate area, rather than in his new 'owner's' driveway), so Bumblebee decided to head straight back to his temporary base.

Watching the strange robot crunch down back into the dirty old Camaro, Sammarion's eyes narrowed. As it took off, Sam pushed off with his powerful hind legs, wings beating powerfully as he rose into the dark, his hide melding seamlessly with the night sky.

* * *

The next morning, Sam updated his dam on the happenings of the last night. To his surprise, she'd agreed that he'd done the best thing under the circumstances.

"Do you think it's able to hear our conversation from outside the house?" Judy asked, eyes narrowed.

Sam thought for a moment. "If it has anything resembling our hearing, it could. Given that it hasn't so much as blinked a headlight in the last few minutes, I think it's safe to assume for the moment that it's unaware."

"Good," Judy said. "We'll let it stay, for now. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer still."

Sam looked out the front window. "Is there any reason for the police to be arriving?"

Judy frowned. "No... not that I'm aware of."

Unspoken was the fact that none of them regarded human laws as anything particularly worth following, instead following their own moral codes. Of course, neither did they regard the authorities being aware of their transgressions to be a good thing.

The policeman walked up to the front door. The two nonhuman's sharp eyes picked up the fact that the 'policeman' was slightly transparent and flickered occasionally.

"Another robot, this one with illusions," Judy said disgustedly. "What are these, creations of the Titans?"

"What can I do for you, officer?" Sam asked politely, opening the door.

"We require a pair of old glasses as part of an ongoing criminal trial," the figure said smoothly.

A toothy grin was his answer. "If we handed them to you, is your illusion capable of holding them?"

"My solid hologram is perfectly capable of-" the policeman began to snap, before catching himself.

Two highly amused faces regarded him. All three were aware that the game was now up.

"Well?" Sam asked his dam, eyebrow raised.

"Get the glasses, get into that robot of yours and take your new playmate to an isolated area," Judy whispered lowly. Thinking about Sam's emotional state the last few days, she added, "Feel free to drop your own illusion and rip it apart. I'll slow it down."

"Alright, dam," Sam said. Voice rising to a normal level, he started moving towards the stairs. "I don't know why you want them, robot, but I'll go and get them for you."

"I'd offer a cup of coffee, but I doubt that would do you any good," Judy said, amusement plain in her voice. "I think we have half a can of oil in the shed, if you'd prefer."

"Coffeecoffeecoffee!" a voice said excitedly from inside the police cruiser. "Gooooood!"

The policeman gave the cruiser a grumpy look before turning back to Judy Witwicky. "Sorry, but no. How long is your whelp going to be?"

"Oh, he hasn't been a whelpling for centuries," Judy said. A dirty old Camaro took off down the street like Satan himself was after it. "If you don't catch him, he'll be awhile, though."

"Slag!" the policeman said, fading out entirely. The cruiser took off with a roar, and a fading screech of "Noooooooo! Cooooooooooffeeeeeeeeee!"

* * *

Sam shoved the Camaro into third. Normally he'd have winced at the grinding noise that happened when he did that (first order of business was ordering a new gearbox), but right now he didn't give a damn. He turned left onto the motorway, kicking the console as the car tried to stay off it briefly.

"Get on there!" Sam snapped. "I'm trying to draw that thing to a remote location."

"... you know who I am?" the car asked, stunned.

"I've known since last night," Sam spat. He looked in the rear view mirror, for once happy to see blue and red lights in it. "For a highly advanced robot, you're not very stealthy. Try leaving without headlights and engine noise next time."

"... I'll remember that," the car said.

Spotting a nice empty sprawl of land on the right, Sam took the next turnoff, roaring into the hills and pulling up in a nice empty valley.

Getting out, Sam watched the police cruiser pull to a stop in front of him.

"Give me the glasses, boy, and you might just live through this," the cruiser said, transforming into a menacing looking black and white robot.

"Leave him alone, Barricade!" Sam's car said, transforming into a more benign looking yellow and black robot.

As his car began to stride forward, Sam put an arm across the robot's ankle. To the robot's great surprise, Sam was able to stop it entirely.

"I've been under a great deal of stress lately," Sam noted. "And... Barricade, was it? You're going to help me relieve it. Car, stay back. Or I'll fill you with Glade air fresheners."

Barricade laughed, then presented his array of talons. "What are you going to do, Squishy, bleed on me?"

Both transformers were gobsmacked as the small human transformed himself, growing into a massive black creature that a brief Google told them was a... dragon?

Barricade was so stunned that he stood still while Sammarion took a deep breath.

Bumblebee was hugely surprised. Growing up in an ongoing war, he'd never believed in any kind of deity, so this human turning into this... legend was like Primus suddenly talking to him. He was even more surprised when a plume of fire emerged from the black dragon's throat and washed over Barricade.

Barricade let out a metallic scream, staggering back under the ferocious heat. While he'd come into Earth, withstanding the heat of entry into Earth's atmosphere, he'd used a landing pod for that and had not undergone any kind of heat himself. He could feel precious components beginning to melt under the dragonfire as he fell to his knee-joints.

The dragon flew forwards with a few pumps of it's massive wings, forepaws bringing up a double handful of claws, intent plain.

The Decepticon frontliner decided enough was enough, turned, transformed, and rolled for it.

"Why are you letting him go?" Bumblebee demanded. "Get him!"

The dragon's head turned to regard him, grin evident. "Why? He can't hurt me, and who's he going to tell? Besides..."

"What?" the scout asked, a bit afraid now himself of the once-human-looking dragon.

"Now, I get to play with him again once he's repaired," Sam said, transforming back into the small human form.


	3. Seeking Trouble

The expression on Starscream's face was so twisted that the only emotion his wingmates could pick up was hate.

"Hey, I'm sure Hook can fix you," Skywarp said tentatively.

"It's the principle!" Starscream screamed. "Those two Pitspawn are going to pay for this latest insult in a long string of abominations!"

The other two couldn't really argue with that. They were all flying in root mode. Why, when their alts were jet fighters? Well, they were covered in dents, dings and scratches, along with their own personal problems.

Starscream's wings were bent backwards, and they screamed pain and fire whenever the lightest breeze touched them. Considering that they had to fly back to the sunken Decepticon base, he was constantly in agony during the entire journey.

Skywarp's ailerons had been ripped off entirely, and none of them were sure where they had gone. Replacements would have to be fabricated from the Decepticons' dwindling supplies of metal suitable as armour, something that Megatron would be undoubtedly unhappy about. Without those, controlled atmospheric flight wasn't really a possibility.

Thundercracker had it as bad as Starscream, if not worse. His left arm had been ripped off at the elbow joint, and stuffed up one of his jets so hard that neither of his wingmates could pull it out. He'd passed out when he tried. Thundercracker hated Sunstreaker with the burning passion of a thousand suns. Skywarp and Starscream were supporting him and helping him maintain speed and altitude.

"Praise Primus, the docking tower is in sight," Thundercracker sighed.

"Soundwave, open the door," Starscream commanded.

"Acknowledged," the monotonic Third in Command said over the radio.

The trine landed inside the elevator, Thundercracker keening in pain as his damaged thruster touched the metal floor briefly. They all stayed silent, two wishing it didn't hurt so much, the third running over plans for payback.

When they hit the main corridor on the way to the Medbay, they found the Decepticon Leader, Megatron, waiting for them.

"Well, so the mighty warriors return," he sneered.

The three said nothing.

"Well? No mad speeches about how you meant for this to happen, Starscream?" Megatron asked.

Starscream raised his head to glare at his superior. "Mighty Megatron, I'm going to need some supplies and help from Scavenger and Hook after the three of us are repaired."

Megatron raised an eye ridge. "Oh? Some static-processored plan for revenge? What useless, neutered weapon are you going to create this time?"

"Oh, I'm not going to _hurt_ those Autotwit Twins," Starscream crooned. "I'm going to do much _worse._ I'm going to give them a _present._"

Skywarp half expected Megatron to hit Starscream and say 'Denied', along with some kind of insult.

To everyones' surprise, Megatron thought about it for a moment, then laughed. "Permission granted. But don't be too generous, Starscream."

* * *

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were out racing on some of the long, straight highways that the humans seemed to be so good at building.

So far, they'd outpaced two Highway Patrol cars and beaten a Ferrari 355, a Jaguar E-type, a Mercedes-Benz 300SL, and a Ford Mustang (which they weren't sure was worth mentioning in the bullshit session they'd have with the other Autobots later in the evening.)

"What's that shimmer up ahead?" Sideswipe asked.

"Probably just the heat," Sunstreaker said. "Stop trying to make up for the fact you've lost to me fifteen times today."

"That's just so far," Sideswipe said. "You're going to be more than fifteen losses behind me by the time this is over!"

"Slag that," Sunstreaker said. "It takes more than a wellgreased vocaliser to beat me, laser-"

That was the moment they hit Sideswipe's 'shimmer up ahead', and everything went wrong.

Their systems locked up completely, and they involuntarily transformed back to root mode as they flew through the air, crashing through the desert as they slowly came to a stop. When they found out who did this, Sunstreaker sweared, he was going to feed that 'Con their own lasercore.

His audio sensors picked up a crunching of gravel from a nearby mesa, and a familiar (if unwanted) face appeared.

"Slagging 'Cons," he muttered. To his chagrin, that was all he could do. "Go on, terminate me."

"Terminate you?" Starscream asked, his wingmates grinning behind him. "Oh, no no no, Sunny-bot. My Trine-mates and I were so, so impressed by you and your brother's natural fluidity in the air that we've decided to give you a present, out of the goodness of our Sparks."

"Stick it up your jets," Sideswipe spat.

"Thundercracker, Skywarp, temporarily deactivate our patients, would you?" Starscream said. "I wouldn't want two such esteemed 'bots to be active for such painful procedures."

* * *

"Wow," Thundercracker said approvingly. "I forget how you were in the Science Academy, 'Screamer, then you do amazing stuff like this."

"Don't call me that," Starscream said absently, attention bent on soldering a delicate, finely jointed wiring harness to Sunstreaker's central processor. He slotted in another component to the Autobot's mainframe, finely welding a hair-thin line down, then pausing to observe it.

"Wow," Skywarp added. "It looks like their Creator put it there to begin with."

Starscream slowly, carefully fed the wiring harness down through the wiring loom to gaping open holes in Sunstreaker's back section, then paused.

"Thundercracker! Why is Sideswipe aware of this? Deactivate him!"

* * *

Sideswipe let out a low noise as his systems rebooted. Doing a brief self-diagnostic, he was taken completely by surprise. Rather than red warnings across the board, as he expected, everything was green for go. There were some additional green lights that had never been there before, though, and he didn't recognise the codes and had no idea what parts of his body they were supposed to represent.

He activated his optics, and his systems went live in a nanoclick as he saw a Seeker reclined on the opposite side of the cave he was in. It was painted bright yellow, and had a purple Decepticon logo prominently painted on it's shoulder. The fact that the bot's optics were blue was absently noted as Sideswipe leapt at it, ready to get some answers.

"Alright, slagger!" Sideswipe roared. "Where's my brother? Where is Sunstreaker!"

The mech blinked. "What... I am Sunstreaker! Who are you, glitchspawn?"

Sideswipe backed off a bit, and pointed his servo at the Seeker. "You don't fool me! Sunny is a Lamborghini, like me!"

The yellow Seeker raised it's servo, studying it intently, before locking optics with Sideswipe. "No, Sunny is now something else, and so are you. Look at your servo, slagger!"

Sideswipe felt panic rising at he looked at his servo. Something about it was subtly wrong. "What? Hey, if you're Sunny, what did we do to Jazz last week?"

The yellow seeker let out a sigh of exasperation. "We swapped his gypsy jazz files for Norwegian black metal. And if you're Sideswipe, what was the last picture I painted in Iacon?"

"The Iacon skyline, as starlight began to rise over," Sideswipe said dreamily, stopping and shaking his head. "Wait, Sunny, it's really you?"

The yellow Seeker rose to his feet. "Yes. And you look to be some kind of Seeker as well."

Sideswipe got to his feet as well, feeling something scrape along the cave wall. He looked over his shoulder, or tried to only to see a massive air intake in the way. Raising a hand, he realised it was one of his wingtips that hit the wall. He poked his right forearm with his left servo.

"They didn't use very good metal," Sideswipe said. "It feels like..."

"The Earthen slag they laughingly claim is high quality steel," Sunstreaker sneered. "This metal isn't even worth the scrappy paint they just slapped on me."

"Hey, a mirror and a note!" Sideswipe said, spotting a large, reflective sheet of glass and a small piece of steel with a message engraved on it. The glyphs were small, tightly written and spiky in appearance.

"Dear Autoscum," Sunstreaker said, picking up the note. "We've taken the liberty of giving you a present. Thundercracker hopes that the two of you learn to use your jets before the sky hunger eats your sanity. Skywarp doesn't much care. Personally, I don't think that you have any sanity to lose. Also, have fun returning to your Autobot friends with Decepticon frames and insignia."

Sideswipe scowled blackly at the massive wings the mirror told him were mounted on his back.

"I almost wish I could see your face when you visit that sociopath you call a medic," Sunstreaker continued to read.

"Hey! He can't insult Ratchet like that!"

"And no, you don't have functioning weapons," Sunstreaker continued to read. "We've requisitioned them for the Decepticon cause, along with the remains of your armour. By the time you've activated and read this, I'm sure that the Constructicons have melted the metal down into ingots to be recycled for our use. Primus bless, Starscream."

Sideswipe put his foot through the mirror that the Command Trine had left for them.

* * *

"Where're the Twins?" Ironhide asked. "They were supposed to be back a day ago."

The command element of the Autobots had learnt over the vorns that the two Lamborghinis could get distracted once in a while when out racing each other. It didn't happen very often, and it seemed to help the more homicidal of the two cool down, so to speak, so they had learnt to live with it.

"Teletran's scanners don't pick them up," Prowl said, frowning slightly. His doorwings shifted. "Even if in recharge, we'd be able to find them. Logic suggests enemy action."

"Where was their last known location?" Ironhide asked. "I'll round up Jazz and Hound to scout the area, you inform Prime."

* * *

Sunstreaker stared up into the sky, grumpy.

Sideswipe stopped walking. "Come on, Sunny, we won't get back to the Ark sitting around in the middle of nowhere."

"We won't get back to the Ark in the next year," Sunstreaker spat, "walking the slow way, like a second-frame sparkling."

"We already tried flying, remember?" Sideswipe said, wincing.

While Cybertronian-forged armour would have come away from their crashes with scuffs and a few dings (both of which would have made his other half steaming mad to begin with), the Earthen steel that the Decepticon Command Trine had used had ripped and torn itself up and down Sunstreaker's front and Sideswipe's side. Sideswipe's left wingtip still hurt.

"And our bitrotted comms don't fragging work," Sunstreaker snarled, beginning to walk again.

"I miss my wheels," Sideswipe whined.

"Shut up and walk."

* * *

"We found a cave nearby with a lot of medical looking trash," Jazz said, "but no ray of sunshine or ray of trouble."

"What kind of trash?" Ratchet asked.

Hound unsubspaced a box, upending it onto the debriefing table. Bits of electrical insulation, worn bolts and fuel piping spread out. "This isn't all of it, but we did get a sample of everything that was there."

Ratchet poked through the pile thoughtfully.

"Does this collection mean something to you, Ratchet?" Optimus Prime asked.

"Yeeeesss," Ratchet said absently. "This looks like central wiring harness, going from a 'bot's central processor out to his servos. See the diameter of the insulation here? The wiring this came off was from a harness, it's not used in anything else. Except high speed comms and data equipment, but the rest of the debris suggests something else. Most of this piping is used you can see how the energon polished the inside, the slight buildup, but some of this is brand new."

"Oh! We also found this," Hound said, producing a small pile of broken glass.

"... a mirror?" Prime asked, perplexed.

"In your opinion, Ratchet, what operation was likely done in that cave to produce this kind of rubbish?" Prowl asked, mind chewing things over.

"Whatever it was, it'd be a massive overhaul," Ratchet admitted. "And with wiring harness this fine, more than cosmetic."

"Ratchet, are you suggesting?" Optimus asked.

"Yeah, looks like," Ratchet said.

"So?"

"Depends. We might," Ratchet said reluctantly.

Jazz waved his arms in the air. "Translation for the bots who still usin' speech here?"

"Sunstreaker and Sideswipe have been reformatted," Optimus Prime said slowly. His optics lifted to look the rest of the room straight. "And we don't know whether we'll get them back, or whether Megatron will have a couple more drones in the next battle."

* * *

"SUNNY! LOOK!" Sideswipe yelled. "The trail back to the Ark!

Sunstreaker couldn't summon the energy to yell back. And to be honest, he was just as happy to see that hardpacked dirt road.

"Brawn! Cliffjumper!" Sideswipe continued to holler, waving his arms in the air at the two mini-bots coming towards them. "Boy, I'm even glad to see you two!"

Sunstreaker jumped as the other two transformed, unsubspaced their blasters, and began taking potshots at him and Sideswipe.

"Hey! I'm Sideswipe! I know it doesn't look like it, but honest I am!"

"I know a no-good stinking Deceptijet when I see one," Cliffjumper said belligerently, before popping off another few shots.

"Hold it," Brawn said, pushing down the muzzle of Cliffjumper's rifle. "Decepticons don't walk up to our home base with no weapons, especially if they're a couple of tetra-jet glory hogs..."

"What are you saying?" Cliffjumper asked, blaster rising to keep a bead on the two Seekers.

Sunny and Sides had resigned themselves to their fate and were just waiting. The two of them were Primus-near recharging on their feet anyway.

Brawn brought his arm up to his vocaliser, radio popping out of a small hatch. "Brawn to Ark, come in Red."

"Brawn, this is Red Alert, report."

"We have a couple of Decepticon Seekers with no weapons standing here waiting for us to do something."

"It's a trick! Disable them immediately! I'll alert Optimus Prime," Red Alert spat out.

Sideswipe vented his intakes. "Sunny, I think this is what the humans call karma for all those tricks we pulled on Prowler."


	4. Precious Cargo

"What is it?" Lennox asked, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He'd been hauled out of a sound sleep by Optimus Prime and was in a semi-disused corner of one of the hangars, along with Sideswipe, of all mechs.

"We have received word of Perceptor arriving, along with some very, very precious cargo," Optimus said. "Reports have also come in of the Stunticon team arriving in close proximity."

"Who is Perceptor, and what is this cargo?" Lennox asked. "And why is this so secret?"

"Perceptor is the foremost Autobot scientist," Sideswipe said. "He also does fine circuitry repair for Ratchet."

"The cargo is Vector Sigma," Optimus rumbled.

The name meant nothing to William Lennox, but the effect on Sideswipe was as if he'd been struck by lightning. "Ve-Ve-Vector Sigma?"

"This an important mech or something?" Lennox asked. "And why can't we just get it transported by the Air Force or something?"

"Vector Sigma was the only sibling, so to speak, of the Allspark. It was a massive supercomputer capable of endowing empty chambers with spark, intellect and soul," Optimus said. "It was considered destroyed long before the previous Golden Age of Cybertron."

Sideswipe, who had had a bit more spare time to integrate human culture, explained it a bit further to Lennox. "It's a bit like Julius Caesar and Abraham Lincoln appearing in the middle of the Commonwealth Games. But that really doesn't start to even touch the edges of the impact this will have."

"The biggest concern I have is that the Stunticons will find out about Vector Sigma if we organise transport through usual channels," Optimus Prime said. "We can't afford for word of this to get out."

"So, why are we here talking about it?" Lennox said. He followed Optimus Prime's gaze towards Sideswipe.

"Er, Prime?"

"Sideswipe, I know you've been making... contacts," Optimus rumbled.

"Contacts? I don't get it," Lennox complained. "It's too early to take in anything like this with no coffee."

"It isn't an official position, but Sideswipe is what many of my command element term our 'clandestine relations officer'," Optimus Prime explained. "He'll be able to arrange transport with no one the wiser."

"Well, you don't need to go telling him that," Sideswipe complained. "And yeah, I can sort out transport. But stealth is not gonna happen."

"The components will arrive unharmed, though," Optimus said. It wasn't a question.

"Oh, absolutely," Sideswipe said. "I'm gonna have to bring some of these people into the Big Secret, though."

"If this really is clandestine, the less I know now the less I have to lie about later," Lennox grumbled. "Optimus, tell me anything I need to know later. You and Sideswipe have my full support in this."

* * *

"Okay, so all the parts are ready to go," Lennox said. "Perceptor is making his own way with the operating system and software. The main processing unit is loaded onto shipping pallets. The power source is crated and all set."

"Good," Sideswipe said.

Lennox sat on the Lamborghini Diablo's hood. "Are you sure these guys are turning up?"

"You're lucky I'm not my brother," Sideswipe observed. "Or you'd be getting a lecture about damaging my paintjob with your rough rivets and organic denim. And yeah, these guys will turn up."

The ranger shaded his eyes. "Here comes one."

"George, by the looks," Sideswipe said.

Lennox looked up as the ancient International truck pulled up along side, and the aging man got out.

"Everything ready to be loaded?" the man asked. "Sideswipe?"

The Autobot transformed. "All set, George. Got your ropes and tiedowns?"

"Sure do," George said amiably. "I'm going to have to ask you to load it, though. Ain't no forklift trucks out here."

* * *

Sideswipe paused. "I should warn you, William, that our other couriers are... very, very unusual, by contemporary standards."

Lennox sighed. "If they hang around us weirdos, I'm not surprised."

"And here they are," Sideswipe said.

"Barracuda... '68?" Lennox guessed.

"You're good."

"Uncle of mine had one."

The car pulled up, and the two people inside didn't bother opening the door. The driver was a powerfully built man in black leathers, with a metal plate covering his face. It was slightly corroded, and the only holes in it were two slits for his eyes. The female in the passenger seat was dressed in a bright, colourful tie-dye dress that covered everything.

"Can I help you?" Lennox ventured.

"We're not here for you," the female snapped. "Sideswipe."

"You're keyed up today, Drider," Sideswipe joked. Lennox noted that neither of the two was shocked or surprised when the red combat specialist transformed into his bi-pedal mode. "Simple job, you just need to get this crate to Diego Garcia as fast as mechanically possible."

"Frank, help him," Drider commanded. The man got out and opened the boot of the 'Cuda. "Sorry if I'm a little keyed up, 'Swipe, but we've got $20 to live on right now. We _need_ this job."

"Half now, half later," Sideswipe said. He put the crate in the boot, Frank slammed it shut, and the woman received a briefcase from Lennox. "Oh, and once you do get to Dee Gee, look up the Hatchet."

"We weren't born yesterday, Swipe," Drider snapped, then closed her eyes. She rubbed her temples. "Sorry."

"Pain acting up today?" Sideswipe asked sympathetically.

"Piss off, sardine-can."

"If you ask Hatchet the right way, he might be able to help you with that," Sideswipe said.

"Need anything else?" Lennox asked. He consciously tried to make his voice soothing and nonconfrontational. "I've got some Panadol if you want it."

"We are eternal, all this pain is an illusion," the man rasped. It was the only line he'd said in the whole exchange, and sounded like a line of naked nerve cells being stroked with a rusty cheesegrater, and about as pleasant to feel.

"See you at the finish line," Sideswipe said.

With a loud roar, the Cuda took off, fishtailing slightly on the loose gravel.

Lennox shuddered. "That voice..."

"They were at Mission City," Sideswipe said softly. "Some energon spray from the casualties there hit them. Drider was paralysed from the waist down, and Frank took it to the face and throat."

"Rough," Lennox said. He thought for a moment. "Does that mean that you guys owe them?"

"I don't know," Sideswipe admitted. "It sure feels like it, though. She only took that name after Mission City it's a reference to the human fantasy 'Drider' creature, all of whom hated what they were turned into."

* * *

George looked back in the rearview mirror. The hitchhiker he'd picked up, Eject, was holding onto his seat like his hands were vicegrips, and not a collection of general purpose hand-mimicking manipulators.

"Motormaster's falling behind," he said pleasantly.

"Can you even see the road?" Eject squeaked.

"Don't need to," George said. "I saw this stretch about ten seconds ago, and I'm not that forgetful."

"I CAN'T SEE THE ROAD AT ALL!" Eject screamed. "If I opened the side door I'd just see a thousand meter drop! Your tyres are millimeters from said drop! You can't see anything over the long nose of this ancient truck!"

George smiled. The only soundtrack was the loud bellow of a massive diesel engine with the taps wide open. "I don't need to. I've lived with this old lady all my life. We understand each other."


	5. One Faction Must Fall

Ross abruptly realised that he and Samson were in atmospheric freefall, so he grabbed the other HAR and slowed their descent with strategic thruster blasts. He saw the weirdest robot he'd ever laid eyes on optic sensors, at the moment and decided to land near it, since it would hopefully have some connection with World Aeronautics and Robotics, and he could progress to the grovelling and trying to not get fired.

Where are your ancestral artifacts? the HAR roared at a male youth on the ground.

Samson's HAR wriggled loose from Ross's grip, falling the remaining distance and absorbing the impact with the easy fluidity inherent in the Jaguar's design. Samson grabbed the angry HAR's wrists to immobilise it.

Both HAR pilots absently wondered what mechanical engineer had felt the need to lash... pneumatic tyres? Onto an obviously experimental HAR.

Big man, Samson rumbled. Ross began to worry. I'd heard that some aberrant elements had managed to wangle WAR technology, but not that they'd managed to get them onto American soil.

C'mon, kid, Ross said, crouching near the male youth. He lowered an arm to the boy as best he could the Pyros frame wasn't designed with anywhere near the flexibility of the Jaguar HAR, being instead meant for brute force and maneuverability in zero-G.

The enemy HAR kicked Samson, or tried to. The Jaguar HAR dodged it with hard won instinct, as Samson's mind began to cloud over. This was the worst day in the history of bad days for him. He'd been killed, or at least it strongly felt like it to him, some being with an almost visible aura of power and authority had lectured him and Ross with nonsense, and now he was being confronted by the ugliest bastard that ever rolled out of a mech bay.

Since both of Samson's arms were busy holding the enemy's wrists, he activated his chest mounted 100 ton Smith and Winston Concussion Cannon, letting go as the the massive enemy HAR flew a dozen meters, sliding to a stop on it's back. Not letting it's pilot a moment to gather his wits, Samson leapt at the HAR, foot landing just below it's head in what looked like a vulnerable spot.

Samson had never left the Arena circuit because he couldn't perform in HAR to HAR combat. He'd been on borrowed time after the psychologists began to become extremely worried that his core personality was being adversely affected somehow by the unbridled combat.

He'd been thrown out of the Arena entirely after a particularly bad fight. Up until that time, it had been thought that pilot death was impossible, since the physical body of the pilot was not mechanically coupled to the HAR itself, and the pilot's minds were protected by neural safeguards limiting the pain data. Samson had found that pilot braindeath was indeed possible, just very difficult to achieve. He'd done it by inflicting massive amounts of pain in a split second, ripping his opponent's legs off his torso as well as the left arm, the painreceptors in the pilot's brain activating before the neurocomputers had a chance to moderate the flow. It was ruled death by misfortune, but Samson's career in the Arena had finished there and then.

But here and now, this enemy was going down. Pulling it to it's feet, Samson wrapped his Jaguar HAR's arms around it in a bearhug, then bent himself almost completely backwards, the back of his metal head touching his ankles as he slammed the enemy HAR on the ground, hard, whipping himself back upright and sending it flying even further in a low round kick. Optic sensors steady, he waited for it to get up.

Samson! he heard Ross yell. We've got company!

Turning, but keeping an audio sensor out for the enemy in case it decided it hadn't finished it's rations for the day, he saw... yet another funny-looking HAR. This one had the same flayed look to it as the enemy HAR, but with yellow panels and blue coloured optical sensors.

If I don't get explanations soon, I'm going to keep getting upset, Samson threatened.

Don't worry... 'bout a thing... cos every little thing... gonna be alright, Bob Marley warbled from the yellow 'bot.

Samson stared incredulously. Unfortunately, the Jaguar frame wasn't really designed for it, so none of the others could tell. Ross could, though, after working with him for so long.

The Pyros frame's oxygen intakes turned on for a moment. The faint hum of the compressors could be heard as it started compressing the air down to liquid oxygen for it's thrusters Samson had figured out by now that that was what it did when Ross would have sighed as a human.

I know, this guy's vocal relay is stuffed, Ross said. Listen, more of these guys are landing. I say we go and see if we can find one that can actually talk, 'cause neither of these kids know anything.

Off we go, then, Samson sighed. This, too, didn't translate well to bodylanguage, so only the vocal element remained.

* * *

Ross stared incredulously at the secret agent types who were hosing him down with... liquid nitrogen? Okay, so it was working on Samson, whose Jaguar-design HAR was strictly designed for atmospheric conditions, but just how primitive did they think his frame was? What did they think his rocket thrusters were for, roasting marshmallows?

Stupid, stupid little idiots, he rumbled. I was designed for deep space construction work, doing twelve hour shifts in three degrees kelvin, and you think that seventy seven kelvin is going to slow me down? I moved around four-digit-ton struts, and you think that twelve idiots in Kevlar are going to stop me?

The working mooks hosing him and Samson down didn't pause for a second, but the henchmen types standing at a safe distance did. They began to shoot orders a little too late, as Ross spent precious energy activating his thrusters, heating Samson back up to operational temperature.

I don't want to kill you, Ross said. Samson no, don't attack them. We're going to regroup, and give these gentlemen a chance to reconsider their options.

* * *

Ross stared at the camera for a moment, mind a million miles away. Explain?

Mind if I take this one? Samson asked, before taking it anyway. Two days ago, I was watching WWF with my brother in law. We were working our way through a bottle of the good stuff some imported La Trappe Quadrupel beer, ten percent, you know? He had a bottle of Talisker Scotch whiskey he was teasing me with. Now, the only thing that the Talisker would do would be turn the very stuff I'm made of into rust, probably. I can't walk down the street, I can't tickle my niece without probably crushing her... there are so many things I miss.

The interviewer paused for a moment he obviously hadn't expected such a touching, human moment with what looked like a robot. So the world you come from had, er, robots like the things you're in right now?

The Human Assisted Robot, or HAR, was first developed by World Aeronautics and Robotics, Ross explained, in 2009, or so. Roughly. The first prototypes were used to develop the first working active space station, and were pretty crude by our standards. Feedback was strictly along the lines of 'something happened to the left leg' could've been a papercut, could've been taken off entirely, the neurofeedback at the time couldn't tell.

They were controlled through remote, Samson interjected. The first pilots had to have brain implants in the day very risky, but very lucrative. For all intents and purposes, while you're piloting a HAR, you are that very Human Assisted Robot. With the technology of 2097, no implants were necessary.

And these were part of everyday life for modern citizens? the interviewer asked, still trying to get his feet under him.

Jaguar HARs, like Samson's design, were created by Ibrahim Hothe as crowd control, but primarily as security. The original design came with a hundred-ton Smith and Winston concussion cannon, but it seems to have been downgraded in the transition, Ross said. My own Pyros frame was meant for deep space construction work, mainly in space station design but also in space ship work. There was one HAR designed for normal Earth construction specifically as well.

Is there any reason why, for lack of better words, you haven't... freaked out, yet?

I spent twelve hour shifts working with this as my body, Ross mused out loud. I was, for all intents and purposes, a Pyros-frame HAR, not some meat machine. After months of that, being stuck in it doesn't really rattle you that much. It probably will in a few days, it just hasn't sunken in, yet.

As for me, Samson said, staring intently into the camera, I was part of the Arena. It was a sponsored event by WAR Corporation where Human Assisted Robots took part in mortal... well, robotic, I suppose, combat. There is no time to delay, if you stop to think, 'I need to move the HAR's left leg,' rather than 'move my left leg', you know, like a normal person, your opponent will destroy you. Literally, sometimes. And I was the best.

So you're a construction worker, Mr Ross, and you're a pro wrestler, Mr Samson? the interviewer asked, happy to have finally managed to pigeonhole the two.

Pretty much, Ross said, a grin evident in his tone, if not his appearance.

No, Samson said. I wasn't a 'pro wrestler'. There were no theatrical stunts, no moves that looked flashy but were as dangerous as two five year olds arm wrestling. In the last match I had in the Arena, I ripped my opponents legs off.

Wasn't that the one that got you banned? Ross asked out loud.

Samson glared at Ross. Just about none of it translated to bodylanguage, just a slight darkening of his optics.

Is there anything you'd like to do, now that you're nearly a hundred years in the past? the lady asked, trying to grab the upbeat, humanistic angle back.

Samson's optics brightened. Sure! Um, I mean, um...

The interviewer smiled broadly at Samson and gestured to keep talking.

I'd... really like to... um... meet the Young Brothers, Page, Hudson, Kilmister, and Richards, Samson said, vocaliser barely audible.

Who? the interviewer asked, completely confused.

Oh! Ross said, massive Pyros frame leaning forward. I think he means some of the icons from the dawn of rock era. Uh... let's see if I know these. I didn't study like he did. Uh... AC DC, Lead... Balloon? Um... no idea for Henderson, Motorhead, and the Rolling Stones.

Samson's head shot around. That's Led Zeppelin, troglodyte. And Slash.

I bet I know what else he wants, Ross continued cheerfully. To steal the guitar from the Hard Rock Cafe's roof, curse and swear when he realises his hands aren't agile enough in the Jaguar frame, and then really swear when he realises that that mock guitar is in nothing resembling tune, and there is no way in hell he can get it in tune.

Well, what about you? No machine shop here, your ride didn't make here either, and you wouldn't fit in it if it did, Samson said, hurting over losing one of his loves.

His ride? the interviewer asked. She was starting to become resigned to the fact that she was not in control.

I had a Barracuda '68, Ross said. Seven point two litre engine, supercharger, massive carbs... it cost a fortune in 2097, most of my money from one of the station contracts.

Why so much? I mean, they do cost money, but not as much as you'd get paid from working on a space station construction contract. Is that right?

Yeah. To put it into today's terms, Ross said, it'd be like buying Gottlieb Daimler's first car prototype. It was getting on to a hundred and thirty years old.

* * *

I've been missing this, Samson said, optics narrowing and curving in what Ross recognised as a sadistic grin. Ross, give me a lift?

The massive Pyros mech nodded, as the lithe Jaguar easily leaped up, resting comfortably on his shoulders. Thrusters pointing downwards, the two rocketed into the air.

How far up? Ross asked. He didn't insult Samson by asking 'Are you sure?'

This will do, Samson said. Hold position... see you at base!

The Arena fighter leapt off the deep space construction 'bot, landing agilely on top of Starscream who was trailing Skywarp and Thundercracker in an attempt to get the Lamborghini Twins off of them.

GET OFF! the Air Commander shrieked.

Locking his legs around the gap between Starscream's wings and his tail assembly, Samson raised his hands. Ratchet had worked on them to give him more dexterity, and his right hand had sharp talons, while his left had touch sensitive pads, intended for his guitar playing. He leaned to his right, and punched a set of holes in Starscream's right wingtip, listening with glee as the Seeker screamed.

SLAGGING PITSPAWNED SON OF A DIPSTICK! Starscream roared. It worked so well that Samson punched more holes into the same wing. Starscream screamed again as he began to bank to the right, before adjusting his flaps.

You're not having fun? Samson asked. I am! Dog, sit!

What do you think I am? Starscream asked. He broke into a sharp dive, hoping that the abrupt change would dislodge the relatively inexperienced Jet Judo-ist. I am no Earthling mongrel!

Waiting for Starscream to even off a bit, Samson rolled over to the right wing, letting go of Starscream's main fuselage. He held onto the right wing, using the holes he'd punched earlier. His metal body was spread full length across both of Starscream's wings, and the Seeker was having trouble maintaining altitude with the massive interference from the Jaguar's heavy body.

Get... OFF!

Samson's optic twisted in what only Ross would recognise as his sadistic little grin. As you command.

Twisting, he flipped himself one eighty degrees, still holding onto Starscream's right wingtip. The Seeker was forced into flying with his right wing pointing completely down, left up, Jaguar HAR hanging from the bottom. This provided no lift whatsoever, and the jet began to slowly, inexorably descend to the ground at massive speed.

Insane Autobot! GET OFF! YOU'LL KILL US BOTH!

Samson kept grinning, waiting for the right moment. Before Starscream hit the ground, he twisted around, climbing up onto Starscream's fuselage through punching more holes with his sharp right hand. He leapt before impact, being ably caught by Ross, who spun in the air to absorb his momentum.

* * *

Ross stood across the floor from Sunstreaker. Ironhide wanted to see what him and Samson were like in close quarter combat he'd already demonstrated that he, at least, was a lousy shot.

I don't think much'll happen, Ross said. I do know some basic stuff, but not in this body, and nowhere near the standard I'd need to take someone like you.

That don't matter, Jazz called from the sidelines. Sunny knows not to permanently harm ya, this's just to get an idea.

Sunstreaker charged the massive Pyros. Ross's thrusters came up reflexively, activating and forcing the yellow Autobot away.

See? You're doin' okay, Jazz cheered.

Sunstreaker looked down at his arms, where he had blocked the brunt of the blast. The paint was crackling and popping from the heat, discoloured to many different degrees. He looked up again at Ross, optics darkening to a deep purple.

Oh, crap, Ross muttered. He raised his heavy arms, suddenly glad that Ratchet hadn't changed them, and they were still the heavy girders he was familiar with.

With a roar of inarticulate rage, Sunstreaker charged Ross again. Having a fair idea that this time, the Autobot was likely to forget the rules, Ross brought his right arm forward in a straight punch, connecting solidly with the Lambo's chestplate. A massive crash erupted, as Sunny flew to the side. The mechs watching from that area of the sidelines scattered, as Ironhide knelt down next to the Lambo.

Stop, Ironhide said. Ah'm go'nna need Ratchet's opinion on this one.

Bumblebee stared. Sunny's chest was nearly caved in entirely, and energon was flowing steadily from the cracks. Even Tracks would probably have preferred the blistered, peeling paint from Ross's thrusters. I can't believe you did that.

Ross frowned. Nothing of it came through. I keep telling people I worked heavy construction. Why don't you people ever believe me?

Ironhide stepped forward. Ah don't believe it. Ol' Ratchet's gonna be pissed.

The massive construction mech moved over to the wall. It had been built on Cybertron along with the rest of the Ark, and was quite strong. Ironhide, come here and punch the wall, as hard as you can.

The red van cautiously joined the Pyros mech, and hit the wall. A sizable dent was made, about half the length of his forearm.

Ross put his right arm through it entirely with ease. He pulled it out, watching as sparks flew. I worked deep space construction. It might have been zero gravity, but the struts I moved and welded still massed more than Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Optimus Prime and you put together with ease.

Ironhide shook his head. New rule, no thrusters, cannons, rockets, whatever. I want to see what needs fixing in raw technique. Samson, Sideswipe, your turn.

Ratchet arrived and began working on Sunstreaker frantically. Sideswipe narrowed his optics at Samson. I was gonna go easy on you, but not now.

Samson stretched lazily before answering. Promises, promises. Jazz, give me a rhythm.

Any kind? the Spec Ops mech asked, confused at the timing of the request.

Something with a good beat, something tribal, Samson said. His optics curved in what the Autobots were coming to recognise as a smirk.

As the music began to pound (and pound was the word for it), Sideswipe charged the Jaguar HAR. Only to miss.

The Jag was constantly moving, shifting weight from foot to foot, leaping and dancing, making Sideswipe jump back reflexively as a hand nearly tagged him.

Stop doing that, Sideswipe said, trying to nail the lithe 'bot. The Jaguar was surprisingly quick and fast, he probably should have expected that from the light build.

The Lambo decided to just take whatever he got and tried to get Samson with a series of punches and kicks. The Jag leapt around them, pedes rising to kick Sideswipe in the vocaliser in a series of whirling, leaps that Sideswipe kept moving backwards to avoid.

It continued in that vein for awhile, with Sideswipe making forceful attacks that the Jaguar flowed around, still moving to Jazz's rhythmic music, and the Jaguar keeping Sideswipe offbalance with kicks that never connected.

Suddenly Samson curled then flipped in a tight ball in mid air, pedes shooting out at Sideswipe's optics. Sideswipe backpedalled quickly as the pedes swept past. As Samson landed, his right leg swept out in a long, smooth arc along the ground, knocking over an already unstable Sideswipe. Spinning again to convert the rotation into a leap, Samson landed on top of Sideswipe, right hand raised in a threat.

Winner, Samson, Ironhide said. What was that?

The style? Samson asked, lending Sideswipe a servo to get to his feet. The Lambo ignored it. South American. Normally I'd use a harder style, but I wanted to have some fun.

I don't get it, Jazz said. You normally rip stuff up, Sideswipe!

The Decepticons don't use any kind of technique like... whatever that was, Sideswipe said, confused as hell. I honestly had no idea what the Pit he was doing.


	6. Request: May I destroy this Decepticon?

The Droid And His Boy

Sam was out playing when it happened. His parents had decided that they'd go on a camping trip, and Sam was exploring while they set up camp. The six year old gasped as he came across a metal shape, embedded into the ground.

"Wooooow, I bet this is a old bomb or something," he gasped, immediately climbing down onto it with a fine disregard for his own safety born of youth.

Poking at it, his fingers caught on a ridge, and he scrabbled backwards as a hatch in the metal opened up. Sam's breathing sped up as a rusty red figure climbed up, and out of the metal object.

"Congratulations: Hello, master," the... robot? Said to Sam.

"MUUUUUUM!" Sam screamed as loud as he could.

* * *

Back at camp, the three humans were on one side of the beginnings of a firepit, and the rusty red droid was on the other. Ron, Sam's father, had brought along a shotgun ("in case of bears", he'd claimed), which was now pointed at the strange being.

"Explanation: I am a HK series protocol droid, and am skilled in six thousand methods of communication," it said in an even tone.

"Wh-why are you here?" Judy, Sam's mother asked. Her breathing was quite rapid as well, and Ron was privately worried that she'd go into a fullblown panic attack.

"Commentary: my previous master was destroyed in a diplomatic incident, and I was jettisoned. I have waited for four thousand years, and my programming demands that I have a master."

"So... since you saw me first, I'm your master, right?" Sam asked bravely.

"Correct."

Ron shuddered inwardly. The droids red... optics and rusted bodywork gave him the creeps.

"Warning: a hostile native lifeform is approaching. Do you wish me to dispose of it, Master?"

"Dispose?" Judy asked faintly.

"Explanation: My previous master had several modules in protection and defence added to my data banks, as he worked in diplomatic circles. Alas, his last enemy worked around this."

"You sound like you could be useful," Ron allowed cautiously. "But you can't do anything Sam tells you not to do, right?"

"Agreement: I concur with both statements," HK47 said. "Warning: the lifeform is coming quite close. Shall I destroy it? I do enjoy disposing of... threats."

Judy screamed as a grizzly bear broke through the trees into their little camp, attracted by the scent of food. Ron pulled the trigger on the shotgun, managing to miss it completely (which partly explained why the droid hadn't looked worried in the slightest.) HK47 pulled a chunky, futuristic looking rifle from nowhere and shot the bear with it.

All three humans looked dazed as chunks of fur, meat, and offal started to rain around them.

"He's got my vote," Judy said in a daze. The two males nodded.

* * *

"NO! You can't kill him!" Sam yelled at the droid in the safety of the garage.

"Disappointment: you are a cruel master," HK47 said sadly.

"I know Trent beats me up and steals my stuff, but you can't go around killing people just over that stuff!"

"Observation: terminating him would stop him from further degrading your physical state of repair, Master."

"Well, yeah, he'd be _dead_."

"I fail to see the problem."

"Look, killing is wrong, okay?"

"Query: what about inflicting damage on the meatbag without killing it?"

Sam hedged for a moment, then gave in. "Oh, alright. Only this once, though, and nothing permanent."

"Delight: I see that I shall have to make it memorable, since I will only have this one chance."

"And nothing that can be traced back to us, either."

"Rapture: a challenge."

* * *

"Disappointment: Master, why are you not including me?"

Sam looked up. Mikaela just looked panicked. "HK! Great! See that black droid there?"

"Yes."

Sam pointed at Barricade. "HK47, KILL!"

The rusty looking six foot tall droid looked the massive Cybertronian being up and down. "Finally, Master, you give me something worth doing."


	7. Bad Aim And Judgement

"The Fallen, I know 'im," Jetfire said, getting more excited by the moment. "He left me here to rust! The original Decepticon, he was terrible to work for, it's always apocalypse, chaos, crisis! These inscriptions, they were a part of my mission to fall in search, I remember now! The Dagger's Tip... a-a-and the key!"

"Slow down, we need that Matrix to save Optimus Prime," Sam said, desperately trying to assimilate as much as possible. "The Dagger's Tip-"

"No time to explain," Jetfire said, mind whirling. "Hold on, everybody! Stay still or you die!"

* * *

Leo screamed as he fell through the air, stopping as he hit the ground hard on his back (luckily on somewhat soft sand), then continued again as he saw a massive metal body start falling from the sky straight for him.

"AAAAAGH! JETFIRE! I'M GONNA SICK MIKAELA ON YOU!" Leo screamed. He paused, and poked the metal body. It had landed just to one side of him by inches (he figured that Fate was saving up some extra nastiness for later on for him.) "You're not Jetfire. But you're too big to be those other guys."

"What the hell did you do?" Sam yelled. Leo winced as somehow his roomie managed to hit ear-bleeding volume, then realised how as he looked over.

Sam was now a younger version of Jetfire, minus the cane, whiskery metal shavings, and plus good posture. He loomed over the old Transformer threateningly, who didn't appear intimidated in the slightest. Leo screamed again as the metal body next to him began to move.

"Sam? Saaaam!" it yelled Mikaela, Leo realised.

Leo was pulled to his feet by Simmons, and both stared up at the two young SR71's, a Camaro, and a pair of small streetcars confronting Jetfire.

"New plan, kid," Simmons said. "If this gets violent, we talk N.B.E. 02 into getting us outta here."

"N.B.E. 02?" Leo asked weakly.

"The yellow one."

"Running sounds good to me right now."

"What the hell did you do to us?" Mikaela shrieked. With her new vocaliser, she had a very penetrating shriek when she wanted.

"Don't get snippy with me," Jetfire roared. "I gave you lot plenty of warning-"

"You didn't say anything," Sam roared back, "you just did it! How the hell did we turn into young versions of you?"

"The only way that could have happened would be if one of you insolent former apes had traces of Vector Sigma, or Allspark energy," Jetfire spat, brow ridges drawing down and together. "And by the time either of you got to Cybertron, got exposed, and got back to Planet Dirt, you'd have dissipated it!"

"The Allspark was on Earth," Sam yelled. "I had to kill Megatron with it! I was getting those weird symbols and messages from the power it left in me!"

"You should have told me!" Jetfire roared back.

"Hold it! Ain't none of this shit ain't helpin' us do dick!" Mudflap yelled, waving his arms up.

Leo had to give the Autobot props. If he was confronted by anyone more than three times his own height, it would take a lot of liquid courage to yell at them. Leo was honest, he'd admit (if only to himself) that he ran like hell whenever the boyfriend to one of the kittens in his 'kitten' calendars ever confronted him.

"Er, is this a good time to point out that we have INCOMING?" Simmons yelled.

"Oh, God," Leo muttered. "This is not good. Not good."

"More Decepticons," Jetfire said. "Wonderful. Just what we needed."

"Who are they?" Mikaela asked, fury (temporarily) averted.

"Dunno, don't recognise 'em," Jetfire shrugged. He produced a long staff of some sort, and an energy blade sprouted from the top.


	8. Bled Dry

Visiting a very secret military base loaded with extra-terrestrial beings, extremely advanced technology and tropical island weather sounded like you'd never, ever get bored.

Sam, Miles, and Mikaela were discovering for themselves just how true this was not.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm enjoying learning from Ratchet, but if I spend one more day soldering, welding or hammering I'm going to scream," the girl sighed, leaning back on the sand. "Sam, are you still playing World of Warcraft?"

"Well, it's on the government's dime," Sam said, tapping away on his laptop next to her. "You're just jealous that my blood elf paladin is level eighty, and your mage is still seventy."

"It would be so cool if you were an elven paladin in real life," Miles said from where he was just sunbathing, with a Tom Clancy book resting on top of his head.

"In real life?" an unfamiliar voice asked.

Miles took the book off and twisted to see who it was. "Oh, hi, Perceptor."

"He means if Sam and me were blood elves in real life, instead of just fantasy pretend-land," Mikaela said languidly. "You know, with long ears, glowing green eyes, extremely long lives, that kinda thing."

"Hmmm," the human-sized root mode electron microscope said. "Long lives, but how would one absorb 'magic' in real life... hmmm..."

Mikaela and Miles went back to dozing off in the sun, while Sam killed imaginary undead monsters and the scientist Transformer mulled things over in his processor.

* * *

The three teenagers didn't think anything of the conversation until Perceptor came up to them later.

"What are these?" Sam asked, holding the translucent yellow capsule between thumb and forefinger cautiously.

"Simply put, agents to transform you into a real life analogue of the computer game 'blood elf' species," Perceptor said promptly. "They should be perfectly safe, of course."

"Should be?" Mikaela asked. Both of the humans raised the capsules Perceptor had handed them to head height and eyed them.

"Uhhhhhh," Sam stalled, trying to think of a way to turn down Perceptor's offer and not hurt the innocent (and, amazingly, still somewhat naive at times) autobot.

"Hey, you two! Great news!" Miles yelled, coming up from behind and slapping his two friends on the back.

Sam and Mikaela, who had both spent time sunbathing while killing time, flinched reflexively as Miles slapped their sunburnt backs, their hands jerking. Optics whirred as Perceptor tracked the two capsules' flight into the human's mouths, and as they swallowed involuntarily.

"Did we just?" Mikaela asked weakly, thumping her chest lightly in disbelief.

"Yes," Perceptor nodded. "I had intended for the two of you to do so in a controlled environment, since you will find yourselves going unconscious-"

"Sam!" Miles yelled, grabbing his best bud as he started to collapse.

"Er, yes, unconscious," Perceptor said, grabbing Mikaela. The electron microscope looked at Miles, nervously adding, "I suppose that we'd better get them to the repairbay."

* * *

"YOU SODIUM CHLORIDE PLATED UNDERCLOCKED SCRAP PILE!" Ratchet roared. Perceptor knew both not to take it too seriously as it was partially Ratchet responding badly to surprises, and to also take it to heart, in a way. "Doctor Fell, get some monitors going on Mikaela, I'll cover Sam."

"On it," the human medic said while Ratchet's servos flawlessly hooked Sam up to several machines that kept track of all manner of vital signs.

"They aren't going to die, are they?" Miles asked, worry plain in his voice.

"I don't _know_," Ratchet said, testy. "Because SOMEONE didn't wait. SOMEONE didn't run it past the resident chief medical officer."

"I would have," Perceptor protested. "I was showing them my final version, I didn't plan on them taking it there and then!"

Ratchet gave Perceptor a gimlet stare, honed through vorns of staring down Sideswipe and Jazz.

"I don't get it," Fell said. "This stuff is supposed to what, change their species?"

"Basically," Perceptor said. "It uses human DNA as the base, of course, but I added-"

"That's impossible!" Fell protested. "You can't transform people like that, it only happens in bad scifi movies and internet fiction!"

"When you don't have nanotechnology, yes it is impossible," Ratchet said.

"Nanotech?" Miles asked, worrying even more. "We're all going to turn into grey goo?"

"No one's going to turn into grey goo," Perceptor said testily. "Really, I am a trained scientist, and do know what I'm doing."

* * *

Optimus stared. William Lennox stared. Secretary of Defense Keller stared.

"Elves?" Keller asked weakly.

Sometimes Optimus wished he was still a dockworker called Orion Pax. "Apparently."

"He's got long, pointy ears," Lennox said.

"Yes," Perceptor said. "That is what Miles thought would be best."

"No, Miles was daydreaming because he's like that, and you took idle musing seriously," Ratchet sniped.

"He's got long, pointy ears," Lennox said.

"Yes, Will," Optimus said patiently.

Sam's eyes flickered as he started to wake. Even in the bright lights of the medbay, a glow was visible from his now green eyes, enough to obscure his iris and the whites of his eyes.

"Where am I?" Sam asked weakly.

"In the repairbay, Sam," Ratchet said with surprising gentleness. "Do you feel any pain or discomfort?"

"I wish someone'd turn the sun down, and stop yelling," Sam whispered, eyes squinting. Doctor Fell reached for the dimmer for the lights in the background.

"He's got long, pointy ears," Lennox said.

Sam grabbed his ears, then visibly winced. "owwwwww... okay, people, these ears are sensitive as hell. ow. ow. ow. perceptor, what am i?"

"A custom-crafted genus," the microscope answered promptly. "A base of human, tweaked to enhance the senses like hearing, sight, and so on, with an extended lifespan. The ingame original species were listed as having lifespans of up to two thousand Earth years, but it was vastly simpler to just have an indefinite duration. Er. The magic was a problem, but I substituted some of the abilities we found in extraterrestrial organic species that humans usually call telepathy, or psychokinesis."

"This is as classified as I can make it, right now," Keller said. "By indefinite, do you mean that Sam here is now... immortal?"

"Until he is killed, yes," Perceptor confirmed. "Is that a problem?"

Lennox and Keller shared a look.

"Depends on whether you call religious war a problem," Doctor Fell snorted. "I can see half a dozen areas of the globe going up in flames at the immortality alone."

Sam blinked, wincing slightly as Fell briefly shone a light into his eyes to check for concussion-like brain damage. As Fell continued to check Sam, Keller kept talking.

"Until we figure out a good way to conceal your... nonhuman features, Sam, I'm going to have to ask you to stay out of sight. Mikaela Banes is, of course, more than welcome to join you."

"Sam, try this hat on," Lennox said, handing him a simple cap.

Sam obliged, face visibly screwing up. "That feels so weird, having these new ears squashed like that. I feel like I'm going deaf."

Fell looked up at the Autobots. "Ratchet, are any problems arising from the hat?"

"Not so far. I'm reading some blood constriction so far from compression, but nothing that could cause tissue death."

"So far, so good," Lennox muttered. He handed Sam his sunglasses from his top pocket. "Okay, try these."

"Sunglasses?" Sam asked. "What on Earth for?"

"Kill the lights," Keller commanded. As the room dimmed to darkness, the crowded room was lit up by the medical monitors, and also by a green light. "Sam, your eyes now glow."

"Wonderful," Sam groaned. The green light disappeared for a moment, then reappeared as he opened his eyes again. He put the sunglasses on, but the light just escaped over the top and bottom of them.

"Goggles, maybe," Fell said. "We're going to have to run more tests."


	9. Dain Bramage

Author's note: This one begins with this part as a prologue, and the chapters as articles written by the journalist. Her and the photographer are only present as plot devices in the rest of the story, they exist as names to put at the top of articles. Solarwind is another OC, this time to repair the Decepticons. She doesn't have any other function no combat training or anything, except medicine.

Brain damage seems to explain a lot, to me. Megatron went from conquering an entire planet to having trouble with a single elite unit of Autobots and flesh creatures. (Bear in mind that in G1, Megatron has access to Cybertron through the Space Bridge.)

I can't think of a way of continuing this without making the Decepticons highly AU or a bad rip of the Shattered Glass stuff, but if you want to use this feel free. Send me a link.

* * *

"Stop pacing, Starscream," Megatron growled.

Starscream whirled. "We're still stuck on this pathetic mudball, with no supplies and no trained medic to use them! If we had that Autobot Ratchet, most of our mechs would be back in battle readiness by now."

"Reprogramming never lasts worth slag, Starscream," Megatron said. "And the Autobot either slagged most of our medics, or slagged them so bad they're still in stasis."

Starscream sniffed. "It's a shame that we can't fix them, then."

A slow smile began to bloom on Megatron's face. Starscream recognised it from the early days of the war. "No, _we_ can't, Starscream."

"I suppose you have a _plan_ then, Mighty Megatron?" Starscream whined.

Megatron idly hit Starscream across the back of the head. "Of course I do. Thundercracker, this is your part..."

* * *

Teletraan 1 brought up a picture of a nuclear reactor complex far enough that it would take the Autobots a couple hours to get to. "Warning, warning. Decepticons detected."

Optimus Prime looked over. "Megatron! Autobots, roll out!"

"Not again," Sideswipe whined. "Right when I was in the middle of something."

"Ol' Megatron always has had awful timing," Jazz said cheerfully from where he was following the big truck. "Sooner we kick his keister, sooner we get back m'mech."

"DIE AUTOBOT SCUM!"

"Scatter!" Optimus Prime commanded as Thundercracker swooped from the sky, lasers and missiles homing in on Bumblebee.

Thankfully, the seeker took off like a scalded cat when Ironhide and Sideswipe began firing back.

"Ratchet, how is he?" Prime asked.

Ratchet looked up. "I'll need a few minutes to get him back on his wheels, Optimus. You go on ahead, we'll catch up."

"Alright," Optimus said. "Autobots, roll for it!"

Ratchet continued to work on Bumblebee while the others disappeared in the distance, then looked up as a shadow crossed Bee.

"Hey, you're in my light," he began, before recognising Skywarp.

"Nighty night," the big Seeker grinned before hitting Ratchet on the helm, hard. The jolt to the processor knocked the medic offline, and Skywarp took off, leaving Bumblebee lying in the dust.

* * *

Ratchet woke up with a groan. Bringing a servo up to his aching head, he felt something around his neck.

"What is this?" he said, feeling it nervously. It was a thick, lumpy black band around his neck with no visible catch or method of release.

"Careful there, Autobot," a familiar voice screeched. "You don't want to set off the anti-tampering triggers."

"Starscream," Ratchet frowned. "Where are we?"

"Why, you mean you're not glad to be back home on good old Cybertron?" Starscream asked, with a wide eyed look of amazement that was completely fake. His expression became more serious. "You're here to fix someone."

"Fix a Decepticon?" Ratchet asked. "Never!"

"I never realised how little you care about your fellow Autobots," Starscream smirked. "Why, that's almost Decepticon of you."

"I... what do you mean?" Ratchet asked, curiousity getting the better of him.

Starscream pulled the ambulance to his feet. "Oh, I'm sure that Hoist is a very capable family doctor, and that Perceptor is still unsurpassed when it comes to fine processor repair, but tell me... how many of your friends would die on the battlefield while they panicked?"

"I... you win," Ratchet slumped. It was true that he was the only Autobot medic on Earth trained in emergency medical treatment on the field. He could only try and mitigate the effects of Starscream's newest plot. Perhaps repair whatever bot it was in such a way that the repair would fail over time... yes... he'd do that.

"Good," Starscream said. "Now come on!"

* * *

Ratchet stared. "Solarwind?"

Starscream hit him. "Stop vocalising, and FIX HER!"

"I'm fixing, I'm fixing," Ratchet grumbled. "I never knew that my old student was in stasis. I thought she'd been deactivated early in the war."

"No, just very nearly by your side," Starscream muttered, eyes fixed on the Seeker femme. "Hurry up!"

"The tubing around her pump is nearly totally shredded, Starscream," Ratchet said, exasperated with the flighty Air Commander. "That part is easy enough, it's just a matter of soldering and welding in new manifolds, the delicate part is hooking her pump up to her main processor and lasercore energon lines without starving them while the stasis medical splice from the life support machinery is disconnected."

"If it's so hard," Starscream began in a delicate tone of voice, before shrieking, "THEN STOP TALKING TO ME AND CONCENTRATE ON HER!"

"You're the one who wanted to know," Ratchet grumbled, cleaning a section of energon piping before welding it into place.

Thankfully, he was able to work in silence for the rest of it. He carefully cut out the damaged piping which was most of it then welded more new line in, fitting new manifolds onto her fuel pump. Thankfully, that was still intact. Manifolds were easy enough to find or fabricate, but a pump sturdy enough to last for vorns but powerful enough to supply an entire Seeker frame with energon was not.

"Alright, I'm ready to change the piping over," Ratchet said. He pointed at some of the new line that was still dry. "I've fitted valves into the new piping so that if this happens again, medics can use those rather than divert the pipes entirely."

"Good," Starscream said distantly, watching Ratchet with the intent of a cyberwolf. "Continue."

* * *

"How did it go, Starscream?" Megatron asked.

"See for yourself, mighty Megatron," Starscream smiled, pulling Solarwind out from behind him.

Megatron studied her. She was even slighter in build than Starscream, making her wings seem large on her frame. "It will be interesting to have a professionally trained medic on Earth."

Solarwind studied Megatron right back, his only clue as to her assessment her emotionless optics above her mask. "I'm going to consult with Hook, Lord Megatron, then I want all the officers onbase to report to me."

"Starting with me?" Megatron asked.

"Naturally," she replied. It was the same tone that Starscream used when he meant the opposite, but Megatron held back from an almost instinctive backslap for two reasons. One, he didn't know whether or not that she meant insult, and two, only a fool mistreats his own medic.

* * *

Two days later, the Decepticon officers were pulled into a meeting by Solarwind.

"What is this about?" Megatron growled. "You may be our new Chief Medical Officer, but let me remind you that that title is just that new."

"You have serious problems with your earth forces, Lord Megatron," Solarwind said, consulting her datapad. "Starting with yourself, and afflicting very nearly everymech onbase."

"Wha-what?" Megatron said, optics wide and genuinely surprised. "Nothing is wrong with me!"

Solarwind looked up. "How many knocks to the head have you taken over the vorns? How many blasts to the chest? None of the cumulative damage has been remedied several of your neural subprocessors are subpar."

"Nonsense!" Megatron roared. "Hook and the Constructicons know better than to try and sabotage the Decepticon cause! The only one I trust more than them is Soundwave!"

Solarwind knew better than to touch the loyalty issue. "I agree. The Constructicons' only competition in construction is the Autobot Grapple. Notice that I said construction. Their main function is to build, and while Hook is very good at it, he is not trained in medicine. He's better than a fleshling with a welding torch, but he's not a medic. I am."

"Rubbish!"

"You're a fool, Megatron," Starscream shrieked. "Solarwind spent vorns in the Academies studying, and you think that a jumped up Constructicon can match that in a few stellar revolutions?"

Soundwave was quietly glad that Hook and his gestalt was not present in the meeting, or a brawl would have broken out and nothing would have been accomplished. "Effects of repair?"

"Let me put it this way," Solarwind began. "Lord Megatron, you went from a pit gladiator to controlling all of Cybertron, with Shockwave as your current steward. Under your leadership, we conquered battalions of Autobot warriors. Here on Earth, you're having trouble beating a single unit of Autobots and some flesh creatures. Purely due to battle damage no good plans, no good leadership, no good battle."

Megatron knew he had a foul temper, and tamped it down. "I hate to admit it, but you are right, femme."

"See? You're wrong as always, Megatron!"

The tyrant turned around and decked Starscream with a single powerful punch to the face. "Any chance you can fix him?"

Solarwind nudged the mech seeker with a pointed thruster-pede. "He's a good example, actually. Only pure Seeker to ever graduate the Science Academy, Air Commander who co-ordinated a planet's airforce, and now he's a retard with no self control and occasional flashes of brilliance."

Megatron turned and regarded the window to the sea outside the crashed space cruiser. "Soundwave, work with Solarwind to create a roster to get all our mechs repaired while still maintaining base operations and defences."

"I want to fix Hook and Starscream first, sir," Solarwind said, well aware that this would not go down well.

"Fix that traitor?" Megatron asked, turning around in surprise.

"He has been trained in a certain measure of nursing, and I'm going to need all the help I can get to work through an entire bases worth of processor repair. Plus... before the war, we were going out, and I want my mech back."

"And Hook?"

"I know what I said about him, but I also want to train him up, sir. If I get put into stasis again, or flat out deactivated, then you're going to wind up in this same situation again several vorns later, and it will also make him a bit happier about his gestalt being replaced."

* * *

"I still don't think this will do any good," Barricade said dubiously.

"That's why we're the officers, and you're a covert ops mech," Starscream said spitefully. He still wasn't happy about Barricade taking 'his' science officer position on the Nemesis while he was busy with his own Air Commander duties. "Flesh creatures, state your names for our records."

The two journalists looked up with wide eyes. The female spoke first, holding her tape recorder up. "Je-Je-Jenna Odinson, journalist for the New York Times."

The male festooned with several camera cases spoke next. "Steve Horseman, professional photographer."

Soundwave immediately moved forward. "Jenna Tina Odinson: resident of Fair God Apartment complex, apartment 132A. Parental units: Tony and Irene Odinson of Springfield, Ohio, USA. Steven Andrew Horseman: resident above shop named 'Momma Kelly's Bakery'. Parental units: Paul and Dawn Horseman of New York, New York State, USA."

"As you can see," Megatron said, "we do know where you live, where your parents live, and there is so, so much more that we also know. So do not try and outsmart us, misrepresent us, or lie about us in the articles you will write for us."

"Articles?" Horseman asked.

"Yes, articles," Starscream said. "Think of it, the two of you being the only flesh creatures to gain exclusive interviews with highly placed Decepticons."

"Begin your interview," Megatron said. "I grow wearied of explaining things to miserable fleshlings."

"If I may, why are you giving these interviews? I mean, if we're just flesh creatures, why bother? Why not just kill us?" Jenna asked.

"Because the Autobots, in their foolishness, would never dream of taking energy without being given permission by Earth governments, and we feel that your people may... decide otherwise, given all the facts."

"Why do you hate us so much?" Horseman asked.

"We don't hate you," Starscream said. "That's like saying we hate the mud on this miserable dustball, or the atmospheric conditions that create havoc when we fly. Sparkless creatures like yourself are not worth my hate."

"You mean the famous Spark that keeps Cybertronians alive?" Jenna asked, proving that she had done some background research.

"Starscream, show the photographer your Spark," Megatron commanded. "Soundwave, if they make any hostile move, kill them."

Steve whistled lowly. "I'm going to have to do some work with my f stops to get a decent exposure on something that bright. Hang on."

"So the Spark is your soul?" Jenna asked Megatron. She was beginning to feel somewhat familiar and, if not safe, then sure where she stood. While the massive warlord wanted her to write articles for him, he wouldn't damage her or her photographer.

"Humans lack a better word," another decepticon spoke up. It... she, Jenna decided, had been hanging back. She looked like a feminine Seeker to Jenna's untrained eye.

"Our Chief Medical Officer, Solarwind," Megatron said.

"The Spark is what makes a Transformer different from a machine that is programmed to do a task, or a drone that carries out orders. Without the Spark, we are nothing, it is the Spark that feels emotions, loves others," Solarwind explained. "Normally the Spark is protected behind several layers of armour in the casing, and only exposed either to medical personnel, or to one's Sparkmate for sparkbonding."

Steve looked over from where he'd managed to finally get a good photograph of the brilliant light emanating from Starscream. "You mean that the Decepticon Air Commmander is flashing me right now?"

"To continue," Solarwind said, "there were several schools of thought on organic life when the war broke out, and the predominant one was that flesh creatures, lacking Spark, were just fleshling equivalents of drones."

"But the Autobots don't treat us like that," Jenna interrupted.

"The Autobots, obviously, adhere to a different school of thought," Megatron said dryly. "At the moment, I'm just trying to get a pack of drones to stop handing my enemies resources."

"Part of the problem with researching the matter was that very few organic species were known," Starscream interjected. "Even the Quintessons were only partly organic, and we don't have any other organic species capable of reasoning on record. Until we encountered Earth, of course. But proof of organic Sparks has still not been found, so I see no reason to play nicely with drones."

"We're getting off topic," Megatron growled. "Male fleshling, are you done?"

"Yeah," Horseman said. "I'm going to try and get some good shots as you all talk, just act naturally."

"If I may," Jenna asked, "could we start with a brief autobiography from you, Lord Megatron?"


End file.
